L'Aimant - Chap 20 (M)
by GiuliettaC
Summary: (M-rated version of Chapter 20 of "L'Aimant". For the T-rated version of this chapter - and indeed for all other chapters of this fic - go to the story entitled, simply, "L'Aimant".) A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense. Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.


**L'Aimant – Chapter 20 (M)**

**Summary:**

(M-rated version of Chapter 20 of "L'Aimant")

A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.

Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.

_Chapter 20: _Midnight mass at Lyminster. Sam reconfigures Christopher's wardrobe. Iain confides in an old friend. The Foyles celebrate Christmas _à deux._

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

For the **T-rated version of this chapter**, (and indeed for all other chapters of this fic), go to the story entitled, simply, "**L'Aimant**".

…

According to Foyle's War canon, the church in Lyminster is called _St Stephen's_. Apologies to St Mary Magdalene, which had to be ignored as a result.

…

_Knight's Castile_ was, and still is, a UK brand of olive-oil-based white soap, made in a style similar to traditional Spanish soap from the region of Castile.

…

Even _dancesabove_ (who is super-sniffy about misuse of the word 'literally') would allow me to describe this chapter as _literally _packed with lemons. As you're reading this M-rated version, I can assure you that it's also a figurative citrus feast. So be warned if 'tart' makes you wince.

* * *

**_Previously, in "L'Aimant"_**

_"Iain, I didn't mean that you… I'm sorry, Darling. You're a sweet and gentle, caring man, but I feel so guilty bringing you this responsibility when you're getting ready to retire. And I __**am**__ a little frightened. If this leaves me… ill, or weak, how will you cope?"_

_"The Lord will give me strength. And we shall see a specialist. Get you seen at Arundel. Stirling doesn't fill me with confidence. So if there's any possibility that this will damage your health, we should… really we should take advice."_

_"Iain?" Geraldine turned in bed and gave him a shocked look._

_He shook his head. "Of course not. I __**just**__ mean, I want you seen by a proper obstetrician. This is not the time to trust to… luck. The Good Lord has his hands already full, and we should not presume on his indulgence."_

_Geraldine turned on her side, and rested her head on Iain's shoulder._

_"__**'Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall'**__," he said. "Have we been utter fools, my dear?"_

_"Utter. We were lazy—underestimated each other." _

_"I fear that tongues will wag incessantly the moment we announce the news." _

_"Well, let them. You must write a sermon on the subject of the marriage vows: __**'With my body I thee worship'**__. I don't recall any codicil that mentions switching off at sixty. Any tuttings from the_ parish ladies will be sour grapes or jealousy, if you ask me. Merry Christmas, Darling."

* * *

**Chapter 20**

**Late Sunday evening, 24****th**** December 1944**

In the packed village church of St Stephen's, Lyminster, the Reverend Iain Stewart was bringing Midnight Mass to a close.

_Christ, Light of the world._

_May Thy healing peace _

_bring succour to our troubled world._

_The roar of might is silenced by a baby's cry;_

_for in His flesh, He bringeth peace _

_and endeth the abomination that is war._

_The peace of the Lord be always with you._

**_And also with you._**

_Go in peace to love and serve the Lord._

_In the name of Christ._

_Amen_

**_Amen_**

The pews had begun to empty, but Samantha was still on her knees with head bowed. Screwing her eyes tight, she offered up an extra prayer for her parents, and a question to her maker:_ Lord? Do you see everything coming, or do we sometimes surprise even you? _

It was an interesting issue, and Sam half-opened an eye the better to ponder it. Actually, people often saw things coming from a distance, she reflected, but still managed to be surprised when the inevitable happened. _We look, but often we don't _see._ Perhaps the Lord sees, but he isn't always looking. Oh, golly; do be quiet, Samantha._

Not one to dwell on prayer (if prayer it was), she crossed herself and rose from genuflection.

A giggle escaped her as Christopher bent to pick up his trilby from the pew seat next to him.

"And what's tickled you?" He raised an eyebrow.

"You're very lucky the hat's still serviceable," she whispered confidentially. "I saw Mrs Allcock nearly sit on it after _O Come, All Ye Faithful_." Sam craned her neck to catch a parting glimpse of the accused's ample posterior as it left the pew. "If Mr Allcock hadn't caught her at the very last minute, I don't think the crown of your trilby would _ever_ have popped back up again."

Christopher held his hat by the indents at the front, and swivelled subtly to observe Mrs Allcock's retreating rear. _Certainly a broad and well-upholstered bottom. _And one that had survived five years of rationing to boot.

On a whim, he leant back to compare Sam's own behind. The idea of teasing her on such a subject appealed to him. Briefly, he weighed up the risks of doing so and concluded that the pleasure of some mischief far outweighed the perils.

"I doubt it would recover if even _you_ sat on it," he observed. "_How_ many pre-war-vintage-mince pies do you reckon you've put away since yesterday?"

Sam previously mirth-filled eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'm eating for two, in case you'd forgotten. Obviously, you have _no_ idea how hungry I get these days."

"Not complaining," smirked Christopher, "I _like_ a cushioned seat. Just not convinced my hat would like it."

Sam's response dripped honey. "Oh, Darling, I'm soooo pleased you're satisfied with the goods!" She leant across as if to kiss his cheek, but at the last moment, snatched the trilby from his hand, placed it underneath her bottom… and sat on it.

His astonished gape was met by a defiant look from Sam. "It's the only way to disprove your theory," she told him with raised chin, and thoroughly unmoved by the clear annoyance now spelt in his features.

Christopher squinted at her. "Minx," he growled. "That's the only one I've brought."

"Too bad," she told him coolly, and handed back his flattened hat. "Perhaps I'll knit you a woolly one to travel back in. My knitting's…"

"Awful. Yes, so you told us. Well, _thank you_, Sam, for the kind thought." He gave her a nod of sardonic gratitude, and set about reshaping the bruised felt—one hand braced inside the crown, splayed fingers deftly smoothing round the outside. "We'll be discussing this in private, later," he told her with a tight smile.

"Whenever you're ready," she answered breezily.

Standing in the porch, Reverend Stewart was shaking hands with his departing congregation. Geraldine was beside him, exchanging Christmas greetings with parishioners, and kissing one or two old friends in between.

One by one, the villagers left the little church and set out for home, their low-slung blue-filtered torches barely penetrating the winter mist. It was an amiable but dim procession; the icy fog seemed not only to swallow up the pale beams of artificial light, but also to keep all natural moonlight at bay.

By the time Christopher reached the door—Sam lagging behind with studied nonchalance—Iain was peering out into the milky darkness.

"Not a Christmas candle aglow in _any_ window," observed Sam's father sadly. "On the very day when we are meant to be celebrating the birth of Light into the world, Hitler's hate-filled heart prevents us from illuminating the darkness. It pleases some to cast him as the Antichrist, and what better demonstration do we need?"

Christopher nodded gravely at the wisdom. "Can we help you close up, Iain?" he offered, settling his re-shaped trilby carefully on his head.

"Thanks, dear chap, but Ernest is on hand to help." Iain gestured towards a black-robed figure busy further down the aisle. "Perhaps you'd do me the favour of seeing Geraldine and Samantha safely home? I'll be along in half an hour or so."

"My pleasure, Iain." Christopher offered an arm to his mother-in-law—"Ladies?"—and was about to do the same for Sam, who now stood on the other side of him, when Geraldine looked up and fully registered what was perched atop his head.

"Dear oh, Christopher! I should have warned you not to park your trilby next to Freda. Freda Allcock, felt-flattening terror of St Stephen's pews! In her time, she's ruined hats for countless unsuspecting gentlemen. Samantha, really! You might have tipped your man the wink, Darling."

Samantha leaned round in front of her husband. "Yes, sorry, Mummy—thoughtless of me."

Christopher's eyelids lowered to half-mast. Casting a quick glance in Iain's direction to reassure himself Sam's father wasn't looking, he fed a hand around the back of Sam and pinched her sharply on the bottom. As he felt his wife jump—"Mind your step, my sweet"—he shot her a charming but most un-Foyle-like toothy smile entirely for the benefit of Geraldine.

Sam's eyes flashed in retort, but they contained a smile, and something of a smoulder. She took her husband's arm—now proffered with exaggerated chivalry—and a gloved hand drifted up to squeeze his biceps through the thick material of his coat. For several seconds, her hand lingered there, pressing appreciatively on the muscle.

Together, the three of them set off along the gravelled path towards the lych-gate. To the unschooled eye, Foyle could have been escorting home his wife and daughter.

"See you at home shortly, Iain," Geraldine called back over her shoulder.

"Half an hour, Gi. Go to bed."

Iain wandered down the aisle to join his verger and churchwarden. Ernest Ventham, the Reverend Stewart's longstanding friend, and also his solicitor, was a man of roughly Iain's own age. The services he rendered to the church were voluntary duties assumed since going into semi-retirement two years before. In Iain's book, Ernest was his right-hand man, and now, more than ever, he had the feeling that his friend's support would be appreciated in the months and years to come.

"Ernie," Iain rested a solid hand on Ventham's back, "many thanks once more for all your help with preparations. Shall we expect you both as usual for Christmas dinner tomorrow afternoon? Eh-heh! I rather meant to say, _this _afternoon."

Ernest had just finished taking down the hymn numbers, and stacked them momentarily on the pulpit steps. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a weary sigh. "If it were simply up to me, Iain, we'd be coming. But Joyce has barely set foot outside the house since the telegram. 'Doesn't want to be in company'. You will have noticed that she wasn't here for mass tonight?"

"I did, indeed." Iain nodded his sympathy. "But I'd rather hoped, in view of Christmas… No further news of James yet?"

Ernest closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I'm so very sorry." Iain watched his friend in mute concern as he sank into the front pew and began reliving the awful moment that had devastated his household.

"'Wounded in action'. All it said. No details. Joyce in tears. Bloody cruel." He dragged both hands wearily down his face.

Iain grasped for a positive. "They _do_ say that… erm… after the initial notification, letters can take many weeks to come. I realise it's hard not to think the worst. But in circumstances such as these, no news is good news, don't you think? If James… you know… they'd send another telegram to say so."

Major James Ventham. Career soldier. Thirty-two years of age. On active service. Assumed to be in Sicily, and therefore under General Alexander, ever since an unusual package had arrived in Lyminster late that autumn. The enormous box of lemons, each one wrapped carefully in cotton wool, had reached the Venthams just as the annual common cold epidemic had begun to take hold among the local population. Ailing villagers, who—ironically for denizens of the Limey Nation—hadn't actually clapped eyes upon a citrus fruit in ages, pounced with gratitude upon the heaven-sent supply of sore-throat relief. Joyce Ventham had set up a trestle table in the village hall and handed lemons out to any friends and neighbours with a need. And there were plenty of them.

_Ernest peered over his wife's shoulder as the lemons disappeared. "__**I **__wouldn't mind a taste of one of those," he said. _

_Joyce ignored her husband and relinquished the last yellow fruit to Mrs Jennings, for her five-year-old daughter. "Avril needs a lemon more than Ernest, don't you, Dearie?" Avril's little head and ears were tied up in a gent's woolly scarf, and the fringed ends hung down the sides of her cheeks like bunnies' ears. "What's she got, Yvonne?" asked Joyce, bending down to pat the little girl's head._

_"The doctor says it's laryngitis. Poor lamb can't sleep for the pain in her ears. I've been letting her lie with her head on a hot water bottle."_

_"Aw, bless! Well, never mind, Avril." Joyce stooped down to the small girl's eye-level and tickled the tip of her nose, teasing out a hoarse little giggle. "Mummy will make you some nice lemon water with honey when she gets you home."_

_"Honey?" exclaimed Yvonne. "We'll be lucky! It'll have to be saccharin, I shouldn't wonder. Anyway, thanks, Joycie; Ernest. Say bye-bye to Mrs Ventham, Avril." Avril raised a mittened paw and gave a silent fingers-only wave as her mother led her away._

_Joyce watched them go. "Ernie, haven't we got some honey in the pantry? Take it round to… "_

_"On my way," he told her._

Yes, Joyce had been so proud and happy to share her son's unusual and attentively-packed present. But then, the second week in December, that curt and chilling message had arrived by telegram, and totally upset the lemon cart.

Ernest continued unburdening himself to Iain. "We were quite resigned to James being in the vanguard when war broke out. As you know, by '39 he was already commissioned. But to catch it this late on? Now that they're telling us the tide has turned? We'd started to assume he'd make it through the whole lot unscathed. Got lazy in our thinking. Complacent, you see?"

Iain nodded. Oh, he understood complacency all too well. "At least, though, Ernie, we can all pray in the meantime, while we wait for better news."

Rigidly respectful of church offices and clergy, Ventham placed his hands on his knees and stared, unblinking, at the altar. When he felt himself 'on duty' as he did tonight, he addressed his friend more formally: "That's right, Your Reverence, you and I can pray. But Joyce? She won't have truck with any of this,"—he gestured round the church—"not with the Lord, nor Christmas. The world has gone to hell, if you listen to Joyce." He gave an imperceptible shrug of resignation.

Iain rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We'll lay places for the both of you, anyway. Geraldine and Sam will want to pop round after morning mass, and see if they can't coax her out."

Hastily, Iain planned ahead: _Christopher and I can keep an eye on dinner while Sam and Gigi see to Joyce._ _We're equal to it. Modern men. Fathers with their sleeves rolled up… Speaking of which…_

"Er. Ernie…" Iain seated himself next to Ventham and fixed his gaze upon the altar crucifix. "I, er, want you to know that… Geraldine and I are going to be parents… again."

Ernest slowly turned his head and regarded his friend with surprised interest. "You mean, you're going to adopt an orphan? Give a refugee a home?"

"Nnn…" Iain winced and scratched his cheek. "It's like this, old chum: Geraldine's expecting. God's rather shaken _us _up, too."

Ernest twisted back towards the altar, letting out a slow breath that evolved into a whistle. "He moves in a mysterious way," he agreed.

They sat a while in silence. Eventually Ernest said, "You know_,_ I do believe that _this_ piece of news might _just about _tempt Joycie out of hiding."

* * *

"Goodnight. Sleep well, my dears. Big day tomorrow!" Geraldine hung up her coat and hat, pecked both Sam and Christopher on the cheek, and disappeared upstairs, leaving them to their own devices in the hallway of the vicarage.

It was half past twelve—already Christmas morning. Sam glanced coyly sideways at her husband's injured hat, half regretting her earlier provocation, and half in pleasant trepidation at the consequences she was sure to reap.

"Too chilly to linger in the hallway, I'd say," she commented airily, shrugging off her coat and unpinning her hat. As she settled both items onto pegs along the coat stand, she noticed that Christopher was doing the same with his overcoat, but had left his trilby on.

"May as well go straight up, then," he said nonchalantly. "After you." As Sam turned to precede him up the stairs, he reached up and unhooked a piece of Christmas greenery hanging from the overhead light, and tucked it in his pocket.

Sam began to climb the staircase. Halfway up, she sensed her husband close behind, and felt his arms creep round her waist to halt her progress. All at once his voice was in her ear, crisp, clipped, and thrilling: "Not so fast,"—his breath ghosted against her cheek—"_'Felt-Flattening Terror of St Stephen's Pews'._"

Sam imagined he must be standing tiptoe on the tread below, because the brim of his trilby was brushing the top of her hair.

"I told you we'd discuss this later," he murmured. "_Now _is later. I think you owe my hat an apology."

Sam's innards swooped in anticipation of a sparring match. "I've no intention of apologising to a rotten _hat_. It's an _objec_t, without feelings. Unlike _me_. You hurt my feelings, by implying that my bottom was _fat._ Which it isn't. _Yet_. But if it gets that way, half the responsibility lies with _you_, Mister 'Trust-Me-Everything's-Under-Control' Foyle."

Foyle ignored the invitation to express remorse. "The hat is _very _hurt," he carried on. "Its brim is bruised." He pressed his lips into her neck. "Its crown is crushed." He nibbled lightly on the flesh around her pearl earring. "Its ribbon's… rrrrumpled." His hand slid round and up her ribcage. "Who's to blame? _Not _Mrs… All… cock." Foyle's right arm tightened round Sam's middle locking her against him, whilst his left hand anchored round the banister. "The culprit…"—he paused to blow gently on the downy hairline just behind her ear—"is a mischievous _minx_, identifiable by her pert…"—he pushed his lower body up against her rear—"but padded rump. Does she have anything to say before I _thoroughly_ arrest her?"

Sam was giving no quarter. "Pull my 'rump' against you any harder, and I fear your hat won't be the only flattened object about your dignified person…"

"Mmmcertain objects… retain their shape under pressure," he told her educationally. "Feel free to test your premise, Mrs Foyle, in the same way as you flattened my hat."

Somewhere in Sam's distant past, she would have blushed at such a remark. But she had come a long way in her time in Hastings, and especially in the last eight weeks. A gush of pleasure overtook her, and she leant her head half back and round, avidly seeking attention from Christopher's questing lips.

At that point, their on-stair canoodling was interrupted by Geraldine, on her way across the landing to the bathroom.

"Time to shift your spooning to the bedroom, Duckies. Iain will be back from church before you know it, and he won't appreciate an obstacle course of tangled limbs on his way up to bed." Half under her breath, she added ruefully, "As if he hasn't learnt his lesson the hard way without you lovebirds to remind him."

Geraldine continued down the landing and disappeared from view, but her parting phrase—a reflection on the general state of Stewart family affairs—caused no small amusement in the 'lovebird' camp.

"Night, Mummy," giggled Sam, and Christopher pressed his face into her shoulder, chuckling.

* * *

**Monday morning, 25****th**** December, 1944**

Just after dawn, Foyle woke beside his sleeping wife to see there was a lovely day in store: a shaft of sunlight shone between the curtains of Samantha's girlhood bedroom onto the double bed. In honour of their first stay as a married couple, her thoughtful parents had transferred a bedstead from the attic, complete with its original feather bedding. It made for quite a cosy nest.

His next, and more prosaic thought, was that the curtains must have been improperly drawn the night before—an oversight, that, had they been in Hastings, would certainly have brought an ARP warden to the house, and earned its occupants a hefty fine.

"Sam!" Foyle gently shook his wife's sleeping form. "The sun's out. Open your eyes, Sweetheart, before it goes back in again!"

"Meuuuh!" Sam's rise to wakefulness was laboured. Cosy, warm, and still extremely sleepy, snuggled on her side against her husband, she twisted minutely to stretch herself. The movement was a wrong one. "Tsss! Ow!" She shifted painfully onto her back and pulled both knees up to relieve the ache. "Hoo. Crumbs! How long do slipped discs _last_, do you suppose?"

"Wish I knew. Never had one, Sweetheart." Christopher's face was all concern. "Tried to be careful of you last night. Hope nothing we did jarred it…" He carefully helped her realign herself, and as he did so, allowed his mind to wander back to the early hours before they had finally given in to sleep…

* * *

"So was that _it, _then?" Behind the closed door of her bedroom, Samantha draped both arms hopefully around her husband's neck as he set about loosening his tie.

"Mmm? Not sure what you mean." The look he gave her was casual and uncooperative, with just a hint of imp.

"On the stairs. _That_ was the hat's revenge? You threatened—no you _promised_—to '_thoroughly arrest'_ me."

Christopher shrugged. "Yep. A bluff, though. Don't dare arrest you in your fragile state."

"Am _jolly well __**not **_fragile." Indignant Sam. "Well, apart from the odd twinge. And I want to be arrested. Arrest me, Detective… Chief… Superintendent," she punctuated the command with kisses to his stubbly cheeks, and dipped her head to nip at his lips; her fingers wound persuasively round the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

"Nup." He turned his head aside, avoiding her advances. "Can't do it. Too risky. It could put you right back where you were on Monday."

"Oh! We _can't_ go all this time without…"

"We can go a week or two. Until your back's in order."

Sam huffed, crestfallen, fingers still toying disconsolately with his curls. "Oh gosh; _please_ not, Christopher. Because if something doesn't happen soon, I'll burst. We haven't gone beyond caresses in a week, and I'm _so_ churned up. I've even squashed your hat to get attention. What's the point of being married if we can't… ?"

Christopher's expressive features were an object lesson in how to stifle mirth. "You sat on my hat out of, er, _deprivation_?"

"Absolutely. So, you see? It's your duty to sort me out."

"My… duty? You mean… in the way that an officer of the law might sort out any, um, desperate character?"

"Precisely," grinned Sam. "Arrest me. Forthwith."

A fiery twinkle crept into his eyes. For all his teasing, Foyle was far from easy with the prospect of another week of his desirable young wife off-limits. A dozen years in the wilderness had not gone any way towards curing him of what could be referred to as his 'baser' urges, and though he'd quickly learned to distract, and, in extremis, to appease himself in the normal way of things, Sam's charmingly enticing presence in his life—and now in his bed—had reawakened those desires with renewed intensity. In this new state of affairs, persistent cajoling from Samantha was guaranteed to scupper all his usual diversionary tactics.

His mouth quirked upwards and he sighed in mock resignation. "Well… if it comes down to it, and you _insist_…"

"I do. I absolutely do."

"You _know_ we shouldn't," he began again, somewhat less convinced and therefore less convincing. The words were hollow, and his argument for prudence was, assuredly, now doomed to failure.

Sam sensed a victory, and latched on to his ear, nipping at the sensitive rim around the shell. He smelt of Knight's Castile and sandalwood. "Mmm. Darling. Lovely," she hummed gratefully. "Granted, lying flat's a problem at the moment. If we could just be gentle about things…"

Foyle smiled softly to himself. Through all their lovemaking up to now, the act of love itself, whenever they had lain together, had certainly been _traditional_ in disposition. They were an affectionate couple, fond of eye-contact, and as such, keen on expressing passion face-to-face. For all he knew, therefore, in Sam's view—and certainly in her experience—arrangements for full intimacy never strayed beyond the missionary position.

Now was the time, perhaps, to widen Sam's horizons.

His voice was kind, but business-like. "Gentle is one way, Sam. Or else… inventive."

Sam pulled back to read his eyes, and probed. "What did you have in mind?"

"Easier to show you than describe." He led her to the bed and eased her down to sit beside him, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.

Sam waited patiently for instruction, but found herself distracted by her husband's ever-present trilby. "Aren't you going to take that off?"

"What off?" His tone was blatant non-cooperation, with just the slightest upturn of his mouth—sufficient to provoke.

"The wretched hat." Sam reached up to remove it.

Foyle flinched his head back, catching her firmly by the wrist. "Nup. I'm going to wear it all through Christmas, to remind you of your crime." Then he fished inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a sprig of mistletoe, the stalk of which he deftly slid beneath the rumpled ribbon of the hatband.

"There," he announced. "Now we're fit to go." He leant towards her, mistletoe bobbing cheekily in front of his face, and uttered the familiar formula, with solid emphasis on every word. "Samantha Foyle, I arrest you for the crime of malicious damage to a trilby hat. Anything you say will be taken… down… and used in evidence."

Sam's eyes sparkled at the promise of some mischief. "They'll be coming down jolly soon anyway, so I hardly need to speak the word." Dipping her head, she stole a quick kiss underneath the trilby and its Christmas greenery, and waited, beaming with anticipation.

Foyle licked his lips in thought, then sighed and rose, removing his trousers. Next he took off his jacket and waistcoat, folding and draping both carefully over a nearby chair.

He stood in just his hat and shirt-tails now, some way ahead of her in clothes-removal. Giving his wife a measuring look, he pulled Sam to her feet to face him, then brought his hands up to unbutton her blouse. Once he'd reached the end of the line of buttons, he slid his fingers around the back of her skirt to release the waist-fastening and pull down the zip. The skirt fell round Sam's ankles, and with the merest shrug of her shoulders, her blouse soon followed.

"Better." Foyle took a step back to enjoy the view: Sam was in a satin camisole and French knickers over her suspenders and stockings. "Fetching," he murmured, trailing a finger down between her breasts. "But no, um, corsetry?"

"Brassières tend to provoke lectures from my husband," Sam explained, "so in the end I've decided that they're best left off."

"Well, aren't _I_ lucky. Be sure to thank your husband for me." Christopher ventured a hand to weigh one satin-covered breast, soft and heavy underneath the flimsy undergarment. He considered the weight of it, then ran his thumb over the nipple. Instantly the bud stood to attention, and he bent to take the pert flesh between his lips, teasing it gently through the silken fabric.

Sam drew in a sharp breath, and Christopher straightened up, continuing to stroke her with his thumb. "We could, um, try something now, if you're game…"

Sam's gaze was playful but steady. "Game? If I were Mae West, I'd ask you to show me your gun, round about now."

"Well, we could stand here eye-to-eye and swap more film-star banter, or, um, be inventive. Any preference?"

"I prefer… to invent some love." Sam's kiss when she leaned in was slow and sensual, open-lipped and hungry for contact with his tongue.

Christopher could easily have lingered over such a delicious salute to his desirability, but was mindful of her eagerness to take things further. Grasping Sam gently by the shoulders, he turned her round and urged her up onto the bed. "Hands and knees," he whispered. "I'll be right there." Swiftly, he dropped his underwear, and climbed up to kneel behind her, stroking both hands appreciatively over her satin-clad hips and buttocks. "Mrs Foyle," he hummed, "you have a very rare _derrière_."

Feeling the vibration of Sam's muted laughter, he ran a slow hand forwards along her spine, angling her gently down to rest her weight on her elbows. As she gave beneath him, he leant forwards with her, pushing her blonde curls off the back of her neck and nuzzling there. He wrapped his other arm under her waist, pulling her to him so that she could feel his arousal pressing into her.

"Sam," he breathed into her ear, "it doesn't always have to be face-to-face. This way will be kinder to you." The fingers of his free hand slid into her knickers and pushed the now-soaked crotch aside. As he'd supposed, she was more than ready for him. He parted her folds and traced forwards until he reached her nub. A little gentle teasing coaxed her breath out in sweet hiccups to the rhythm of his fingers.

"Invite me in," he whispered in her ear.

"Mmm… please," Sam moaned, arching her spine as she sank forwards to support herself on her forearms.

"How does that feel, Sweetheart?" His member was straining up against the fabric of her knickers, pulled taut over her buttocks, but he made no move to sink past the crotch and into her, until he was assured that she was at ease with the position.

"Nice," she moaned. "Please, my darling? Now?"

He drew back and pulled the flimsy layer of satin over her hips and down her creamy thighs, coaxing, with her help, to get the garment past her knees and ankles. He could see Samantha fully now, exposed, engorged and glisteningly moist.

"You're beautiful," he breathed.

He heard her whimper, "Hurry!" but was not about to rush this sensual journey for them both. Starting at her clitoris, he trailed a finger delicately up and through her folds, dipping it slowly into her, then turning the fingertip so that it curved downwards into the spongy inner flesh he knew to be especially sensitive. Sam gasped a short, astonished "Uh!" and he knew that he had hit the spot.

Withdrawing his finger, he added another and returned them to the same place inside her. Foyle felt her muscles contract around his knuckles and grinned. "How is that?" he murmured, as much for himself as for Samantha. The anticipation made his penis twitch.

It took very little attention of this kind before Sam was bordering on frantic. "Christ…opher! I want you. In me. Where your fingers are. Please! Now!" Sam writhed against his fingertips, inciting tiny spasms from her inner walls. "Now! Christopher! Oh, God, just do it now."

Foyle withdrew his fingers and took himself in hand. His penis, which had been pressing into Sam's behind, was powerfully and urgently erect. Samantha, in her turn, was drenched, and it took very little realignment for him to slide himself home.

Her groan, and his, as he arrived inside her, were tender testimonials to an aching deprivation now assuaged. The penetration was so deep that Sam felt his tip nudge at her softened cervix. The sensation shot straight through her, spurring a guttural cry inside her throat, even before she could utter a gasp of pleasure.

Slowly at first, Christopher began to withdraw, then push back inside her, bracing her against him with the arm wrapped round her waist. With his other hand, he reached forward to tease Sam's engorged nub. Her inner walls gripped him each time he withdrew, fuelling his next thrust.

The tension built for both of them, but for Sam the depth of penetration in this new position, coupled with the delightful pressure from her husband's fingers, was sending her helplessly spiralling towards orgasm before she could even attempt to pace herself.

Christopher sensed her climax approaching and slackened the pace of his thrusts, whilst stepping up the stimulation of her clitoris. There was more to show her after this, and he had no wish to lose himself in what he considered to be the first round of their lovemaking.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, "come for me." His fingers stroked her harder, and his lips at her ear coaxed her through her helpless sobs to her completion. The sensation as her inner walls pulsed steadily around his aching shaft threatened to bring him over with her.

Abruptly he withdrew, before it was too late. Sam sobbed beneath him from the loss, but he stilled her as he brought her down with gentle stroking. "There will be more, my darling. Steady. Shhh!"

He straightened up, still on his knees, and drew her up against him, fondling her breasts and nuzzling her neck beneath her curls. "Sweet darling, did you like that?"

"Mmm. Wonderful." Sam folded, spent, onto her forearms. After a beat, she frowned. "But you didn't come? Why didn't you? I want you to."

"Didn't want to cut things short. You can put things right, though, if you're still, um, 'game'."

Sam grinned, still boneless from her climax, still supported by his arm around her waist. "Show me your gun."

"My pleasure. But first, a little rest? Lie down with me."

He lowered her to the mattress and she lay on her side, pulling up her knees. Silently, he spooned behind her, folding her into him, and breathed the heady _L'Aimant_ scent that wafted from her hair. "My Venus," he whispered.

It took Sam all of ten minutes to emerge from her altered state and start to ask questions such as "What's next?" and "When can we go again, Christopher?"

He chuckled softly into her neck. "You see? I knew this would happen. Good job I've saved myself for Lesson Two."

Foyle rolled onto his back, and pulled Sam on top of him so that she lay full-length along his body, head resting on his chest.

Settled in position, she took to playing idly with his chest hair, then moved her fingers to his nipple.

"Ach!" Christopher gave a sharp pant, and Sam felt him start to harden underneath her.

Understanding the nature of her discovery, Sam pointed her tongue and described a circle round the puckered flesh. Feeling Christopher squirm with pleasure, she slid her hand down to explore his length.

"You seem to have a problem, Mr Foyle."

"How—ah!—do you propose we solve it, Miss Stewart?"

Sam's tongue now poked into her cheek. "Let me see if I can be clever and work this one out for myself…"

She pushed herself up, so that she was sitting astride his waist. His penis stood upright behind her, and every time she wriggled, it bobbed into the small of her back.

"I imagine I need to move down just a little…" she mused out loud.

"Good idea."

Sam raised herself, and walked back on her knees until she'd cleared his bobbing member, then sat down on his thighs.

"That's better." Examining the sturdy evidence of Christopher's problem, she wrapped her hand around his shaft and gave it an experimental stroke. The intense effect this had upon her husband grew apparent when his back arched, lifting both of them clear off the bed.

"Jesus! Sam! Can't promise to hold on, if you do that."

Sam gave him an indulgent smile. "So I should just… what? Sit on you?"

"That's about the size of it. If you don't mind…"

Sam didn't mind. She rode atop him with a single-minded verve that made him glad he was already horizontal. And to cap it all, once she took to leaning forwards on her elbows, he found it hard to breathe for the volume of lovely female flesh urging itself into his face.

"Oh, dear God, Sam!" he mumbled through a mouthful of Mrs Foyle, "A chap could stifle." The natural fragrance of her skin melded with _L'Aimant_ to invade his nostrils. He turned his head, inhaling the pure scent of fresh perspiration and talcum powder from the arch of her soft underarm. "Sweet heaven, Sam, stay still a moment, let me…" He trailed his tongue lazily down the inside flesh of her upper arm. She tasted of undiluted sensuality, of angel essence. _My lovely Christmas angel. _

"Is this right for you?" she breathed anxiously. "Tell me what I need to do."

Foyle gazed up at her, a perfect vision of solicitude. Hair hanging over face and shoulders, not quite long enough to cover her luscious breasts. She robbed him of his reason. Lover. Partner. Mother of his child-to-be. Without a doubt, he was looking at the shape and spirit of his current and future happiness. And _she_ was asking _him_ for reassurance that she came up to the mark? As if she needed to _do_ anything, apart from join with him and _be._

"Just perfect, Darling," he told her earnestly. "There's not a thing I need that you're not giving me. In every way. And if you carry on like this, you'll find out very soon."

Sam considered what he'd told her. She was doing everything right, apparently. It certainly felt good to her. But somehow, there was an element lacking. In this position, their heads were much too far apart. Compared to their usual position of intimacy, this one left her feeling… distant. Though their lower bodies were joined in the most intimate of ways, she was accustomed, in their lovemaking, to prolonged lip contact. And that was what was missing now. Sam drank in her husband's bright blue eyes beneath her, then with considered tenderness, bent to plant her lips on his.

The sensation flowed through both of them. Engrossed as they had been in the throes of expressing physical love, they had all but forgotten the soul-warming pleasure of a deep and sensual, yet simple kiss. And this was what Sam now reinstated for them. She soon fell into a smooth rhythm of massaging Christopher's lips with hers whilst undulating her lower body. It was a sultry, almost wistful rhythm at first, interspersed with soft words and endearments exchanged between them.

Christopher marvelled briefly at the clever way she'd deepened their experience. But the cerebral appreciation quickly faded as excitement rose. Wistful escalated into wanton, and sultry into ardent. Soon the gentle undulations graduated into bucking from beneath and grinding from above. Sam found she had to pull away from Christopher's lips to brace herself against his shoulders. His own hands had seized her hips to control their rhythm, and the whole evolved into a heavy, urgent cadence with a single, driving objective: completion and release.

Sam threw her head back, lips parted, eyes closed, rising and sinking at a frantic pace over her husband's straining member. Christopher's blue eyes were open, but entirely unseeing, his mouth slack, hauling in huge gasps of air until the final full-tilt dash into fruition stopped his normal breathing rhythm, while his body tensed itself to climax inside his wife. Finally, there was nowhere else for him to go: he felt his testicles contract and shot his essence up into Samantha with a low groan of fulfilment.

Sam felt Christopher explode inside her. The sounds and the sensations of his orgasm engendered in Samantha a deep thrill of empowerment that tipped her over with him. A pulsing fugue of inner-wall contractions flowed from her down his still-erect member well before it softened, and elicited a parting sob of ecstasy from Christopher just as Sam let out a chorus of staccato shouts to signal her completion.

Sam collapsed forwards in a heavy, dampened heap, hair hanging round her face in sweat-darkened tendrils, and pressed her cheek into Christopher's heaving shoulder. "Darling," she panted. "Y-you might have warned me how intense that was going to feel."

"Hardly fair," objected Christopher, gasping through a beatific smile. "I was just the humble passenger on that ride." He pressed his lips into her hair and placed a hand upon her burning cheek.

Recovering a little of his composure, he raised a hand and groped behind his head into the narrow space between the pillow and the headboard, and fished out a flattened lump of felt. "Look at this!" he protested mildly. "You've done it again, by God!"

"_Told_ you to take it off," she giggled.

Halfway up the staircase on his way to bed, Reverend Stewart froze, embarrassed, in his tracks. The vocal transports of delight resounding from Samantha's bedroom halted his ascent. He stood a moment, mortified, pinching at the bridge of his nose. Finally he sighed, obliged to concede that his daughter had reached both adulthood and the pinnacle of joy. As he resumed his climb, he opened up his heart and mind to make room for his next, soon-to-be-cherished, child—one he would survive, he hoped, to usher into similarly jubilant maturity.

* * *

Whilst Christopher's recall of their erotic early-morning marathon still was in full flow, Sam lay with closed eyes, luxuriating in the same memories of their tender lovemaking.

"Darling. Mmm. I've never enjoyed such a romantic start to Christmas," she purred.

Settled with her shoulders against the headboard, she gradually found herself free of troublesome twinges, and turned her attention to the window. "_Do_ open the curtains, Christopher. Let's have a proper look at Christmas Day!"

Foyle drew back the heavy damask drapes, allowing the bright low-angled winter sunshine to stream into the bedroom.

Scrunching her eyes, Sam raised a hand to stave off the piercing brilliance. "Golly! After a pretty jolly awful week of weather, the light is simply breathtaking."

Foyle turned to take in the vision of his wife, propped up in bed, bare-armed, gorgeous and dishevelled in the sunlight. He climbed back beside her under the covers, and pressed kisses to her upper arm. "The sunshine has nothing on my lovely, sunny wife. Thank you for last night," he hummed. "And by the way… the hat forgives you, Darling."

"Oh, that poor old hat!" Sam stroked the soft, thin fuzzy hair on top of Christopher's head. "I'll soon sort it out."

"Will you?" he smiled into her arm, not really caring one way or another any more.

"Absolutely! Re-blocking hats is a complete doddle—we all learnt how in Girl Guides, and"—she added proudly—"I even got my milliner's badge. Your trilby will be ship-shape and Bristol fashion in time for when we leave on Monday." _An upturned saucepan and a kettleful of steam should do the trick_, she thought.

"No woolly hat to travel home in?" enquired Foyle, with more than a hint of relief.

"Your dignity is safe, my darling." Sam ran a hand over his head, then tucked her chin into her neck to focus on his sparsely-covered scalp. She added musingly, "Although, you know, I might just try to knit you a nightcap, anyway—to keep your noggin warm on winter nights."

Foyle closed his eyes and edged his crown into the crook of her armpit, resting his cheek on her breast. "No, thanks," he said. "You do that pretty well, already."

******** TBC ********

**More Author's Notes:**

I see myself as a kind of Joyce Ventham, handing out lemons to my friends. Well, to the friends who chose to read this M-rated version, anyway.

…

More soon.

**GiuC**


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